Nocturne
by chocolatejet
Summary: [Previously entitled 'Chivalry'.] Part 2: 'Messed Up'. "You deserve better than me, Diaval." She laughs then. A short, bitter little sound. "I'm messed up, more than you can imagine." Maleval; Modern AU.
1. Part 1: Chivalry

**NOCTURNE**

 _by chocolatejet_

...

 _ **Part 1: Chivalry**_

...

She comes to the bar every Friday evening, orders a glass of dry white, and tucks herself away in a darkened corner booth for an hour or two.

She always arrives alone, and always leaves alone.

Sometimes, a fellow patron gets drawn in by those long legs and red-painted lips. However, they're promptly sent off with their tail between their legs and Diaval, watching the proceedings from his station behind the bar, can't help but wonder what whip-crack remarks come tumbling out of that pretty mouth of hers.

He keeps an eye on her. Just to make sure she's alright.

Or at least that's what he tells himself.

One Friday, his vigilance pays off. A big, hulking stranger tries his luck. He's quickly shot down, but persists. When Diaval sees the man's beefy hand trail up her thigh beneath the table, he stiffens, an unexpected rage sparking in his gut.

Seemingly unruffled, the woman brushes the invasive hand aside. Her next words don't sit well with the man. This time, his fingers enclose her wrist and Diaval watches her tense, eyes widening with alarm.

He's at the booth in a heartbeat.

"You alright, Miss?"

She looks up at him, startled, full lips parting to respond, but the man beats her to it.

"She's _fine_ ," he says with a strong southern drawl. "Can't you see we're talking?"

"Looks like you're doing more than talking." Diaval glares pointedly at the hand still gripping the woman's wrist. Her already pale skin is completely drained of colour around his digits.

"Ain't none of your business."

"Actually, I own this establishment," says Diaval calmly. "And if the lady wants, I can have you removed."

They turn their gazes to her and she smiles tightly. "I'd like to be left alone, please."

"You heard her. Now, are you going to leave quietly? Or should I call the cops?"

Reluctantly, the man moves to stand. He's a good few inches taller than Diaval, not to mention significantly wider. But he's dealt with worse over the years.

"This ain't over." That said, he skulks out of the bar.

When Diaval turns back to the woman, he catches her rubbing the feeling back into her hand.

"You alright?" he asks again.

She nods, silky chocolate-brown hair swaying with the gesture. "Yes. Thank you."

He doesn't believe her, but doesn't push the issue. As he moves to leave, she speaks again.

"Actually, could I perhaps have something a little stronger?"

Diaval smiles grimly. "I'll see what I can do."

He returns a few minutes later with a tumbler of whiskey, waving her off as she digs in her purse. "It's on the house."

"Thanks." She surprises him by downing the lot in one swallow, with only the smallest of grimaces.

Diaval looks around the rapidly emptying bar. It's getting late.

"You'll be fine to get home?" he asks the woman. Something about the big man's parting shot and the dangerous gleam in his eyes had sent warning bells ringing in Diaval's head.

"It's a five-minute walk," she says with a shrug.

"Well, if you want to wait till I close up, I could give you a ride." Stupidly, he feels himself blush like a teenager when she levels him with sceptical look. "No funny business, I promise."

He leaves her to decide and distracts himself with last orders. Relief washes over him when the last few patrons amble out and he spots her, still sitting in the corner booth. It's another five minutes before he goes to collect her.

"I'm Diaval, by the way," he says as he guides her across the parking lot.

"Maleficent."

"Beautiful name." It's out before he can stop himself. Feeling her eyes on him, Diaval half pretends to take stock of their surroundings. A few empty cars stand dotted about the lot – left by patrons with better sense than to drive themselves home – but nothing suspicious as far as he can tell.

He opens the passenger door of his old truck for Maleficent. She steps up into the cab, gingerly toeing a discarded burger wrapper to the far side of the footwell.

Diaval inwardly groans. "Sorry. I wasn't expecting passengers."

He quickly makes his way round to the driver's side and slides behind the wheel, glad that Maleficent hasn't made a run for it in the meantime. He starts the engine before she can seriously consider it.

"Where to?"

She gives the address of a nearby apartment block. A swanky place, from what he's seen in passing. He pulls up in front of it what feels like a second later.

"Thank you for bringing me home," says Maleficent, and her eyes as she looks at him are filled with genuine gratitude.

"It was no trouble. Goodnight."

As she turns to shut the truck's door after herself, she leans a little into the cab. "I'll see you next Friday."

She says it like a promise, and when he pulls away from the curb after watching her slip safely into the building, Diaval can't help but smile like an idiot.


	2. Part 2: Messed Up

**NOCTURNE**

 _by chocolatejet_

...

 _ **Part 2: Messed Up**_

...

Diaval isn't unused to being flirted with. It's part of the job, and a month ago he'd have flirted right back. But these days he's all-too-aware of Maleficent seated at the bar. Tonight, her eyes are on the finger with which she traces the rim of her wine glass, but her head is tilted subtly towards him and the busty blonde, listening.

"When do you get off?" asks the blonde. She flutters her fake eyelashes at him, and he can't help but think how strange they look.

"Not till late," says Diaval, concentrating on an order. "Way past your bedtime."

"I doubt that." She leans her front against the bar, breasts nearly spilling out of her low-cut top.

There was a time when Diaval would have taken her up on her offer. But now? Now…

He casts a surreptitious glance in Maleficent's direction. She's taking a sip of her wine, a faint crease between her brows. As she draws the glass away, her tongue darts out to lick the moisture from her ruby-red lips. He somehow manages to smother a groan, but can't stop what's going on below the belt.

"So?" The blonde's still in front of him, watching him expectantly.

Diaval shakes his head. "Sorry."

She pouts. "Shame. But if you change your mind…" She produces a pen from her purse and scribbles her number on a napkin. As she returns to her friends, he dumps it in the trash.

. . . . . . . . . .

"She was very pretty."

Diaval takes his eyes off the road to look at Maleficent, surprised. "Who?"

"The blonde." Her gaze is fixed to a spot outside the windshield, face expressionless. Yet Diaval senses something lurking beneath that seemingly calm exterior. Precisely what, he has no idea.

He looks ahead once more and shrugs. "Maybe."

"Yet you turned her down. Why?"

Diaval parks a little too sharply in front of Maleficent's apartment block. He half hopes she'll get out without waiting for a reply, but when he turns his head, he finds himself on the receiving end of an intense look.

"Because…" He swallows, hands wringing the steering wheel, then thinks to himself: _to hell with it_. "Because she wasn't you."

Maleficent doesn't look startled. No. What he sees in those honey-hued eyes of hers is far worse.

Sadness.

"You deserve better than me, Diaval." She laughs then. A short, bitter little sound. "I'm messed up, more than you can imagine."

"I don't care." And he doesn't. Not in the least, because she's beautiful, and shrewd, and – he realises with a start – he wants to help her. Fix her. Protect her like he did that night a whole month ago.

"Oh, darling." Maleficent tilts her head, smiling wistfully as she raises a hand to caress his cheek. "You should." She leans in, and Diaval's breath hitches. He barely registers the softness of her lips or the lingering tang of wine on them before she draws back.

"Goodbye."

Then he's suddenly alone in his truck.

Diaval's mind reels, and by the time he thinks to go after her, she's already slipped into her building out of sight and out of reach. He swears, banging his head against the steering wheel.


End file.
